A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (17 page)

As the day drew to a close they were beaten up two flights of stairs, able only to take tiny steps in their chains. Avraham whispered, ‘Tell them of Heine, your mother's friend. He will arrange for your release.'

Tim shook his head. He hadn't suffered enough for all that he had believed and done.

Avraham tensed as they hobbled along a corridor towards some double doors. ‘I say goodbye, my friend. May your God go with you.' His eyes were fixed on the doors.

Tim looked from them, to Avraham. ‘May yours go with you, though we both share the same one. If I get out of this, can I contact anyone for you?'

‘Sadly, they are dispersed. I know not where. But my name is Avraham Walters. It is my father, now dead, who was Aryan. Should you by chance ever meet someone looking for a family member of that name, please tell them of me so that I may exist, if only in their memory.'

They were at the double doors now. The guards went ahead. Avraham leaned towards Tim, saying urgently, ‘In thinking of my previous words, please, in my pocket is the mezuzah case. Quick, dig in your hands and take it and keep it safe, and put it in your house when you return, so something of my mother, father and I survive. That will keep me stronger and
safer than it being stamped beneath their boots. Beware, it could endanger you. Say no, if that is your wish.'

Tim paused a fraction, then he took it.

Avraham said, as the guards clumped back, ‘You are brave, you are good. Do not suffer for the past, for that is what I think you do, but change the future.'

Avraham was dragged ahead of Tim, through the doors. Tim called, ‘Easterleigh Hall, if you survive.'

He was knocked sideways by the guard. He called again, ‘You will exist in
my
memory, Avraham Walters.' The policeman hit him once more then shoved him down into a chair against the wall, while Avraham was pulled and pushed forward through another set of doors, which swung shut behind him.

Across from Tim sat a woman behind a desk, smoking a cigarette and writing. There were five such desks, each with a woman smoking, and writing. Across from them sat four men and one woman, shackled as he was. One of the men down at the end was slumped forward. The rest were talking in low voices as the women fired questions. A policeman stood behind each of those being interrogated, a truncheon in his hand.

The woman him stubbed out her cigarette and handed the man the paper she had been writing on, and a pen. She pointed at a particular spot on
the paper. The man shook his head and proceeded to stoically read what she had written. She reached across and slapped him hard across the mouth. The sound resonated around the room. No-one even looked. The woman shouted, but the man continued to read. She hit him again. The man read to the bottom of the paper, and only then did he sign.

Tim knew he would remember this bravery for the rest of his life.

At that point the double doors to his left opened. The guard standing behind one of those being interrogated turned and pointed at Tim. He turned, his head heavy and sore, his mouth too, where he had cut the inside with his teeth at some stage of the beating. It was Heine, in his SS uniform. The shackles were unlocked. He stood, swayed. Heine did not reach out to help him. Tim clenched his fists, the nails biting into his palms. Heine said nothing but marched down the corridor, his voice cold and quiet, as Tim limped, trying to keep up. ‘Your mother made me phone round when you did not return home, and I could not believe my ears. You have put me under an obligation – a common thug, they said, who stopped the police to allow criminals to evade capture.'

Tim said, ‘That's a lie.'

Heine stopped. Tim collided with him. Heine stared ahead. ‘I do not lie. The police do not lie. You will not speak again unless spoken to. You will help
your mother prepare for my surprise party, and you will not tell her I know of her plan. You will then return to Britain to harvest the letter forged in your mother's name. The silver was someone else's theft.'

He marched on. Tim put his hand in his pocket and gripped the mezuzah case.

When he arrived at the apartment building, Heine stopped the car and opened the door. ‘You wash, you shower, you help. You remain in your bedroom and do not attend the party, and I do not wish to see your face in the morning, even. You will do this to thank me for my actions. You will also, as I have ordered, find that letter.' Suddenly he smiled. ‘Then we will all be friends.'

Tim limped into the foyer, up in the lift to the second floor. He approached the door and ran his hand over the sanded wood. His relief when he felt the very slight indent made his legs almost fail him. The spirit of the former owners remained. His mother answered his ring. She didn't hug him, but her moue of distaste said it all.

‘I apologise, Mother. It was an accident. The police were chasing others, and I knocked into them, and down they went like skittles.'

‘Stupid boy, you don't do that here, in Germany.' Her face was pale and frightened. ‘Heine wants you to find . . .'

He lifted his hand. ‘I know, I've had my orders.'

He walked away to his bedroom to wash. She shouted, ‘Don't be so damned cheeky.'

He entered his bedroom and shut the door.

Later, he helped Amala set up the buffet table with mats, silver serving spoons, and forks. He carted in piles of porcelain plates, from the storage unit in the kitchen. For an hour he did her bidding, and with each item he wondered where the owners were now. He covered a side table in a white damask cloth. At last Amala gestured to the glasses and bottles in the vitrine. This was what he had been waiting for. He nodded. She disappeared to the kitchen.

He crouched down and examined the lock on the cupboard, which he had not been allowed to open. He removed from his pocket the slim penknife he had taken from his toilet bag. His da had shown him once how to pick a lock, when he was a child, and had lost the key to his metal money-box.

He listened, hardly breathing, turning the blade carefully. Click. He turned the handle and opened the door. Inside were many small silver items. He didn't need to check, but nonetheless he did. The initial stamped onto the bottom of some was exactly what he had expected. ‘B' for Brampton. He didn't recognise the crest on the sugar bowls, or the exquisite brush and comb set, but knew it was some of Lady Brampton's family silver.

He thought he heard a noise, lifted his head, and listened. No, nothing. Carefully he shut the door
and hauled himself upright, closing the penknife. So. So.

He reached for the side table. He was clammy with sweat. His body ached. His mam would have taken him straight to Dr Nicholls to be checked out; his da would have sat him down and talked him through it. Bridie and James would have supported and cheered him. Uncle Aub and Aunt Evie would have turned up to try and help, with Aunt Ver and Uncle Richard.

But he had chosen this woman who was his mother. In no way did he recognise her as such, now. He had chosen this world, which was black and evil, and he, in his turn, had become so too. He didn't know what he must do, except be careful, be clever, and get back home. No, he didn't deserve to say that any more, but he must return to England with no-one here knowing the truth of his feelings, or his discovery. It wasn't fear now, but terror, as it had been in the cell.

Bridie, Ver and Evie had finished breakfasts and were drinking tea around the kitchen table, while Mrs Moore relaxed in one of the armchairs, her mug on the small side table. Currant and Raisin nestled down in the other. Edward VIII's abdication had been mulled over yet again, which led into a long discussion about how much one should give up for love. Each time they ended up as before, disagreeing. Bridie felt you should give up everything. The older women felt that duty was involved. As always, Mrs Moore, sick of the subject, introduced a diversionary thread.

‘By, your da's done a good thing this week, bonny lass,' she called across to Bridie, who was reading the newspaper, studying the feature about the Italian fascist forces making advances in Spain. ‘And your Uncle Jack's been leading the charge on it too, and that rascal Mart.' She looked immensely satisfied. The strike in Easton and Hawton was cancelled, and Fred and his gang of red mufflers seen off.

Bridie said, ‘Aye, but they left it 'til the last minute, Mrs Moore.'

Her mother shook her head, relieved. ‘It's taken time to set up the co-op project, just as it did here. Now the men have a stake in the mines, a profit share. Which makes them owners too. A good thing has happened this week, pet.'

Pearl and Maudie joined them at the table, and as Maudie reached for the teapot she stopped, her hand in mid-air. ‘Bridie, before I forget, Clive was looking for you a while ago. He caught me as I nipped across for more washing soda.' She poured her tea, and a mug for Pearl. ‘He was on his way back to the horses' pasture.'

Bridie asked her mam, ‘We haven't anyone booked in for riding, have we?'

‘Don't ask me, lass. My head's full of Mrs Simpson and the Duke of Windsor. I mean, how does she stay so thin?'

Bridie went to the diary on the side cupboard and checked, and as she'd thought, the day was clear. ‘I'd better go and see what he needs.'

She left her tea, and still with her apron on, grabbed her scarf from the hook in the hall, and headed towards the back door. ‘Wait,' her mam called after her. ‘Finish your tea first.'

Bridie called back as she went towards the steps, ‘No, I'll have it cold.'

She heard her mam say, ‘She'll think it's something to do with Prancer. She and her da are soft as butter over that lovely old boy.'

Bridie shouted back, ‘He's not old.' She heard
them laugh. She set off across the garage yard, towards the path. Clive would be with Prancer, Fanny and Terry. Though, of course, Marigold and Primrose had been turned out into the far pasture too, now that the weather was kinder. She ran down the side of the walled garden, head down into the wind. It was good to be out in the fresh air. She patted her pocket, knowing the horses would look for carrots. She had rushed out too quickly.

She pulled her scarf tighter.

Though it was still cold, the buds on the lilac, which grew close to the wall, were struggling through. She stopped running, the breath heaving in her chest, and strode along past the tool store on the corner, and the glass houses where the young plants and vegetables were being brought on.

As she walked she thought of the article she'd just read, and couldn't understand the brass nerve of these fascists. How dare the Italians go into someone else's country? But then again, Franco, who was leading the Spanish fascists against the elected government, probably sent them an embossed invitation to join him. Well, as long as James didn't feel he had an invitation to go across and take the beggars on.

She damped down her frustration, not helped by remembering how Tim had upset Auntie Gracie and Uncle Jack earlier in the month, and then shot off to Germany for a few days. It was all round Easton that he had been way over the mark with Uncle Jack
in the Club, and what's more, he'd not been to apologise, or see any of the family, since he'd been home. Because he
was
home; Uncle Jack had checked he was back at work.

Young Stan stumped across her path with a hoe over his shoulder. ‘Morning, Bridie.'

She grinned. Young Stan was always the same, a bit like the cedar tree.

‘Morning to you, Young Stan.'

He passed through the gateway into the walled garden.

Young Stan would never hurt anyone as Tim had done . . . She felt the familiar thickening of her throat, the awful sense of loss. Her ribs were healing, but when she closed her eyes, she could still feel the blow, and see his enjoyment.

She cut through the bottom walled garden, between the asparagus beds, heaped higher each year, it seemed, and emerged into the deciduous arboretum that her da had started on his return from the war. ‘We need one on the east side of Easterleigh Hall, as well as the west,' he'd said. ‘I like trees, more so since the guns took so many. If you would be so kind, Young Stan.'

She was through the arboretum now, and heading up the lane to the field. As she approached she saw James leaning on the gate, straining forward. What on earth was he doing here? She ran, her mouth dry, but stumbled on a rut. Primrose? Terry? Fanny, Marigold. Not Prancer. Absolutely not Prancer. She
straightened, her ankle hurting, but she tried to hurry on, calling, ‘James?'

He turned, but switched to the field, then back to her. He looked . . . odd. ‘For God's sake, where have you been, Bridie?' His voice was too high. ‘Clive thought something wasn't quite right, and after mucking out the stalls, he left a message for you, then headed back to the field. Your dad and I were working in the lower field, and he hollered across, telling your da he was worried. I took the new tractor back to Home Farm and phoned the vet while your dad came here. Bertram came straight out. It's Prancer, he's down. He just sank, Bridie. I'd have come for you, but Clive had already sent you a message, though he wasn't too worried then.' His voice was getting higher and higher, and he was running to meet her. ‘They've tried to get him up.'

She tore past him. Prancer down? No, he must get up. He'd die if he went down. He must, must, must get up. James was running alongside. As they clambered over the gate Marigold and Primrose whickered, but Terry and Fanny stood quite still, near the hedge on the right-hand side of the gate.

Bridie said, ‘Just stay there, you two. We'll see how your dad is, Primrose. Look after her, Marigold.'

She ran towards her da, whose back was towards her. He was on his knees beside his beloved Prancer. Bertram squatted with Clive the other side. She threw herself down next to her da. ‘Get him up, Da. We've got to get him up. Don't just kneel there, do
something.' She was shrieking. She could hear herself on the wind.